We All Want the Same Thing (We All Want Love)
by casualcoterie
Summary: Santana is struggling to find that one role that will let her make a name for herself. It's starting to beat her down.
1. Keep Your Head Up and Make It To Me

Rating is to cover my ass for future chapters, just in case.

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Santana is used to auditions. Big studio, navel-gazing indie enclaves, disinterested casting directors who can say things like "we're not going ethnic with this role, but we'll keep you in mind" with straight faces. All of it with a smile on her face. But she has never wanted a role as bad as she wants this stupid, stupid, romcom lead. It's not even like the story is _good_ : it's your typical boy meets girl, boy and girl think mutual interest is unrequited, boy and girl fall in love, The End. But the writing, the dialogue, it's sharp and clever and the lead isn't a well meaning but ultimately useless manchild that prompts the staid romantic interest to loosen up and love him despite his myriad flaws; there is no manic pixie dream girl that teaches him to close his eyes and fall, desperately and madly.

The romantic interest, Lillian, is a whole, rich character irrespective of the lead's feelings towards her; she has her own life and her own dreams and her own goals and she's sometimes blunt and harsh but the narrative doesn't punish her for it. It's the kind of character that can elevate a trite storyline, and god, she wants to do that.

But she's just one in a wash of faces, and most of them are paler and blonder than hers. They're doing all the calls at once, guys through one ominous door and ladies through another, and the line for the ladies' room is, as usual, much longer. She curses herself for being intimidated by all of these other hopefuls, but at least she doesn't let it show. Instead she hides behind her checkbook, trying to figure out how two hundred-some dollars has gone unaccounted for. She's religious about keeping track of where her money is going, even if she doesn't make the best purchasing decisions with it all the time, so she knows she just fucked up the numbers somewhere. Or a lot of somewheres. She leans up against the wall with her book in one hand and her calculator app on the other. It's a welcome distraction from the fact that the waiting area is so crammed that she hasn't been able to sit for an hour.

The stream of people coming in to read is slowing to a trickle now, mostly late comers who probably won't even make it to the front of the line. One of the late comers, Santana notices, neglects to sign in, instead wandering around a little aimlessly until she finds a slice of wall to hold up while she finishes her excessively large coffee drink. She wars with herself. The girl is competition. Not just that, but she's got the kind of "girl next door", surfer babe looks that romantic interests are made for. Not plastic, not "classical", but the kind of gorgeous girl that audiences not only want, but that they feel like they could _get_ \- the kind that makes it so easy for them to connect to the nebbish, everyman lead. But she's _here_ , even if she's incredibly late, and Santana just can't - she's trying to move far away from that dark place where she assumes everyone is trashgarbageawful and in direct opposition of her own goals, even if they more often than not turn out to be exactly that.

"Hey," she says, trying to catch the woman's attention, only to feel like an idiot when she realizes immediately after that the woman has headphones on. People look at her, some confused and some dismissive, and it gets her back up even though logically she knows it's not worth getting worked up over. She just doesn't like to look stupid, like a fool. But she keeps her head on, her chin up, and goes over the girl, prodding her a little bit harder than necessary to get her attention. The woman doesn't jump at her sudden touch, instead pushing her headphones down and turning to Santana with a big smile.

"Hi!" Her voice is friendly and even though she probably isn't any louder than anyone else in the room, it feels like she is.

Santana gestures to the table at the back of the room with the two signup clipboards. "You need to sign in or they won't know to call you for your turn." The girl grins wider, her eyes crinkling with deep smile lines.

"Thanks, but I already signed in. I left to grab this," she shakes her huge iced coffee. "Do you want some?"

Santana feels so stupid now. "Uhm, no. Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you."

The girl doesn't stop smiling and it's starting to feel like she's being laughed at, until she goes to turn away and a hand touches her arm gently, briefly, to stop her from walking back to her spot. "You're fine, it was really nice of you to check like that. I just got bored standing around." She makes a gesture with her head to the space next to her. "You wanna wait with me?"

"Sure. I mean, I'm kind of working on some stuff so I might not be the best conversation," she hedges, lifting the hand with the checkbook a little. The other woman hasn't stopped smiling, and suddenly it kind of feels like she's in on the joke.

She laughs, a short bark that sounds like it almost surprised her, and twists her body to lean her shoulder against the wall and give Santana her full attention. "That's fine, you can stand there and do your thing. Just nod every once in awhile so I don't look like I'm talking to the invisible friend you decided to sit on."

Santana smiles and settles in. "I'm Santana, by the way."

The other girl offers her hand, and Santana clumsily transfers all her belongings to one hand, and then has to transfer them to the other because it's the wrong hand ( _idiota_ ), but then they're shaking hands and the other girl is chuckling gently. "I'm Brittany, Santana. Pleasure to meet you." Santana nods in response, still swearing at herself a little for being so off her game today, and reshuffles her belongings so she can see the numbers again.

"What part are you reading for?" It's mostly a rhetorical question, but she doesn't really have anything else.

Brittany smirks, sly and confident. "The lead." Santana nods, an obvious answer to a stupid question. Brittany leans in closer. "Can I tell you a secret? I've never auditioned for a movie before."

Santana looks her up and down. Her aggressively BoHo outfit, warm orange and tempered by an obviously well-loved panama hat, wedge heeled sneakers, and a distinct lack of obnoxious jangly jewelry that usually accompanies the style. Her calm demeanor. Her ballsy ability to straight up leave the holding area without being terrified to miss her spot. "No offense, but I can definitely see that."

Brittany's smile drops, looking down at herself to see what Santana is seeing. "Is it really that bad?"

She feels like shit. "God, I'm sorry. It's just- I'm saying stuff without thinking first. You're fine. You look really good, actually. It's just - nothing."

Brittany nudges her, smile on her face again. "Just what? I'm a big girl, I got my big girl underwear on."

She runs one fingernail under another nervously. "I was being stupid. When I started auditioning, I got this tip that I should go into auditions dressed like the character I wanted the role for. Like, to help me get into character and stand out. And you're just… not how I imagined the character looking. But I clearly just don't have enough imagination," she says.

Brittany nods, considering. "I didn't really think about it that way. That's a good tip. But I probably wouldn't have done it anyway - I really wanted to wear a skirt today."

Santana looks at herself, at her personal vision of Lillian, at her comfortable pencil skirt. She supposes turnabout is fair play, but it still hurts to hear right now. She buries her face back in her bankbook, trying to bite down her feelings. _Everyone is entitled to their own wrong, stupid, wrong opinion_ she reminds herself.

"Are you auditioning for Lillian?" Brittany asks, casual and conversational. Somehow it hurts more than the question usually does, coming from Brittany. It shouldn't - Brittany has no idea how many times a director has asked her to read for the best friend, the other half of the beta relationship, the bitchy ex who doesn't know what a great guy she missed out on, instead of reading for the headline role she really wants. But it really, really does.

"Yeah," she says, her tone clipped. The other woman gives her a concerned look.

"Are you nervous?" she asks.

Santana has no interest in revealing weakness, least of all that particular one, to this woman. "No."

"Good. You don't need to be. I think you look like an amazing Lillian. Very… self-assured, but you've got the cute jacket and boots so it doesn't make you look like a hard-ass. More like, 'I'm on the job now, but after I'm gonna go dancing'. I think it's a really good read of the character."

She's not sure if Brittany is walking her earlier comment back or what, but Santana knows an apology when she hears one. "Thanks. I really like her."

Brittany nods and knocks her own boots against the wall absently. The girl behind her cuts her a dirty look, and Santana gives her one right back.

"Do you do this a lot?" Brittany asks, looking beyond Santana to the rest of the room.

An understatement. "As much as I can. I've gotten a few walk-on things and I did a commercial a few years ago, but nothing you'd recognize me in."

"Wow," Brittany breaths. Then, "That sum is wrong."

Santana jerks, instinctively pressing her checkbook to her chest. Brittany leans back out of her space, her nose going a little red. "Sorry, that was rude. I wanted to help, I'm good at maths. I shouldn't have gotten all up in your business like that though."

"It's fine. Weird, but fine." She hits the equal sign on her calculator app and Brittany's right, it comes up fourteen bucks and change short. "Wow. Look at you, fucking Billie Nye. I'm so fucking bad at math," she says, scratching out the old number and putting the new figure in. Brittany chuckles and raps her knuckles against the wall.

"I wish I was like Bill Nye, he knows so much! I'm not good at, like, biology and stuff. I'm pretty much just a maths monkey. And most of my work is theoretical." Brittany sees her look, and rushes to clarify. "It's not, like, theoretical like fake. Like, it's an actual job with a paycheck. I just mean the theories I work on are for theoretical concepts."

If she didn't feel stupid before… "No offense, but how did you even hear about this audition? Do you get a lot of tear off fliers in your theoretical math lab?"

Brittany grins, flashing her teeth. "Their social media presence is really impressive. I figured I'd try out, and even if I don't get the part it would give me a chance to talk to them about their promotional team. I'm always interested in new ways to promote my webshow."

Gorgeous, genius, sweet, kind of funny, and spends her free time talking to strangers on the internet and doing random auditions. "You are something else."

Her smile falters a little. "In a good way?" The way she looks at her makes Santana reach out and touch the hand pressed to the wall, trying to assuage that faint tremble that reminds her of that stupid voice in her own head that sounds like her grandmother most of the time.

"Definitely."

Brittany gives her this little half smile before she sinks down the wall to the floor, then takes off her shrug and settles it around Santana's feet. "Sit," she says, and she adjusts the wrap as Santana awkwardly lets herself slide down after her so that it protects her clothes from the dirty floor. "Do you want me to help you with your numbers?"

It kind of sounds like a bad idea, but Brittany looks so sincere. And god, getting this one small stress out of her life would feel so good, even if it's only to make more space for her audition stress to take over. "Yeah, ok. Thanks."

"No problem." She takes the book and a pen from Santana, and starts skimming down the page. She gets through three pages in about twenty seconds before she says anything. "This is wrong, it should be 318," she informs Santana, before noting the adjustment and flipping to the next page. It's really impressive, because she doesn't seem to have any problem holding all the numbers in her head, even if she can't see them. Santana kept getting confused because she notes the final sum from the last page at the top of the next page, but when the final sum on the last page is _wrong_ she doesn't always remember to change the corresponding number on the next page and then the math is still wrong and it's a clusterfuck. Brittany burns through it all, faster than Santana herself was with an actual calculator and then like some kind of fucking magic the final tally is exactly what it should be, according to the number her bank gave her this morning.

"You are some kind of number wizard. Thank you, so much." Brittany hands her back the book and takes a long pull of her coffee.

"NBD," she says. Like, the actual letters. Santana laughs. Brittany tips the still half full drink in her direction, silently offering again. Santana nods, because why the fuck not at this point, really, and Brittany pops the lid off and hands it to her. She can't quite hold it with one hand, so Brittany grips the bottom. With her free hand she protects her clothes from an errant dribble, holding it cupped under her chin, and Brittany takes it from her cleanly when she pulls it away from her mouth.

It's strong as fuck even after half the ice has melted and she didn't realize how bad she needed that. "A wizard, and a mind reader. I feel way better now, thanks."

They pass the cup back and forth until it's gone and Santana has told Brittany all about her cliche job as a waitress - the kind that wears a ridiculous skirted uniform ("Hot.") and entertains every hour, on the hour, and thrice during the dinner service. Brittany's trying to get her to spill the address so she can see the ridiculous mess firsthand when someone who isn't her calls the other woman's name.

"B-Brittany? Uhm, Brittany Pierce?" The woman with the clipboard says, her brow furrowed.

"Present!" Brittany says, prying herself off the floor leisurely. There are a few snickers and Santana takes note of every one of them. She's trying to keep Snix caged, but she's never been interested in getting rid of her entirely, not when she still serves a purpose. Namely, taking these bitches down a peg should the opportunity ever arise. And she can hold a grudge for a long, long time. The city is only so big, and there are only so many auditions. "Watch my stuff?" Brittany asks, snapping her out of the faint red haze.

"Of course," she says, giving her a double thumbs up and a big, reassuring grin.

Brittany gives her a thankful smile before striding towards the back of the room. The woman with the clipboard stops her and seems to be asking her some questions rather than just sending her through. Brittany shakes her head and says something in reply before going… the wrong way, into the men's casting room. Everyone is watching and some people are laughing and Santana "accidentally" kicks over the purse of the girl next to her, sending makeup and feminine hygiene products flying across the floor. She doesn't even bother to give her an insincere apology, too busy considering yanking her chair out from underneath her when she tries to sit back down after collecting her things. Would serve her right for making fun of an honest mistake.

The woman with the clipboard looks like she's not quite sure what to do, but Brittany doesn't come back out after a minute or so, so she calls the next name.

It's a long five minutes. The next five are even longer. As they edge toward the fifteen minute mark, she starts to feel squirmy and nervous. It's the longest any interview has gone yet, and people keep giving her the side-eye like she knows more about what's going on than she does. She's also starting to worry that her name is going to be called before Brittany comes back out and gets her stuff.

Soon after Brittany does come back, looking smug and right at Santana. Santana scrambles up, trying to not tear her skirt or Brittany's shawl. Brittany gives her a hand, pulling her to her feet and looking so proud. "So, can I tell you a secret?"

Santana nods, breathless. Brittany leans in close and whispers into her ear. "I got the part." Her belly does a funny swoop as Brittany pulls back and presses a finger to her lips in the universal motion for "keep your mouth shut". And god, it sucks. It sucks so much. But if anyone else was going to get the part, she is genuinely happy that it was Brittany.

She smiles and tries to keep the disappointment off her face. A part of her felt like maybe, if they saw her perform, maybe - but it never even got that far. Maybe that's better than yet another "we'll get back to you" that steals the strength in her spine bit by bit, until she's bowed under the feeling of failure. They weren't looking for her anyway. They were looking for a "Brittany", just like they always are. But at least they got the best "Brittany" they could have ever got. She stoops to collect their things and grabs Brittany's hand, dragging her to the exit. When they're closer and out of earshot from everyone else, she turns to Brittany with the biggest smile she can muster. Brittany looks at her in confusion. "What are you doing?"

Santana drops her hand like it burnt her. "Sorry. I just thought that we could go celebrate your first movie role." She is trying so hard not to rain on Brittany's parade but maybe she is anyway. Maybe Brittany can see how upset she is and doesn't want her ruining this with bittersweetness.

"Hey," Brittany starts, and then drags her to the bathroom just off the waiting area. She locks the door behind her and grabs her purse out of Santana's hands, making most of their stuff hit the ground and it's pretty much the last straw. She can feel tears starting to build up behind her eyes and she wills them back. "We can't leave," Brittany says, handing her a packet of tissues she dug up from the bottom of her bag. "You haven't auditioned yet."

"I'm not really interested in the other roles Brittany. I'm just going to leave."

"I thought you were auditioning for Lillian?" Brittany says, her confused face making her look like a puppy who can't figure out why its squeaky toy won't squeak anymore.

"Yeah, Brittany. You got it. So let's go and get a drink. My job has a bar we can probably sneak into this early."

Brittany laughs, grabbing Santana's purse off the floor. "I didn't audition for her, I auditioned for Martin. That's the role I got." She digs out Santana's makeup bag and forces it into her hands. "Get your face on, you still have to let these people know that you're here and you're exactly who they've been looking for."

Santana is still a few steps behind. "Martin's the male lead."

Brittany nods. "Yep, he was. But not anymore. Lillian is playing opposite… whatever name they give me, now." Brittany gives her the up and down. "You ok with that?"

The swoop in her stomach turns to butterflies, filling her up with a confidence she hasn't really been able to tap this whole day long. "It'll be a challenge, but I think I can manage." Brittany's laugh is loud and round in the enclosed space.

"Game face time Santana. Get cleaned up. I'm going to stand outside so I can hear if they call you." She starts to turn away and then stops and comes back, fast, and wraps her arms around Santana, giving her a huge hug. It feels like Brittany is molding steel to her spine, her earlier dark thoughts crumbling to dust. "This is your part Santana. You just have to tell them that. They're going to see it."

Santana nods, a little blind from a film of tears she can't let fall because it will ruin her eye liner. She should have splurged on the waterproof.

"Ok. Ok."

Brittany smoothes her hands down her shoulders, smoothing out her slightly rumpled outfit like a doting parent on the first day of school. "Ok. Also, make sure you make eye contact with the dude in the wheelchair when you get in there. He's apparently some kind of big deal. He's not actually a robot so it won't hurt you."

Santana barks out a laugh and Brittany grins. "Thanks Brittany."

Brittany pets her, soothing and gentle. "You're going to be amazing."

Santana has never felt more amazing in her life.


	2. If U Do Me Right, Im Gonna Do Right By U

"And she keeps yelling about 'urban cheese'! I'm like 'woman, I have no idea what you are talking about, what is urban cheese?'! I'm thinking this is some kind of dig at me, like what the fuck. Is she accusing me of being some kind of Harlem dairy maid?" Santana regales, stabbing sharply with her fork towards the checkered table. Brittany laughs, as much at her delivery as the ridiculous tale. "And she keeps screaming about 'urban cheese', how she had no interest paying good money for 'urban cheese' on her pizza. Finally Mercedes comes up and translates for this dumbass like, 'she said it has an _herb and cheese_ blend, not _urban_ cheese'."

Brittany guffaws, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes as Santana finishes. The other woman laughs too, hiding it behind her fist as she fake coughs into it. "The worst part - the _worst_ part, was that she straight up looked at me and said 'Well, your accent is so thick, I couldn't understand you.' Like it's my fault her stupid ass thought 'urban cheese' was a real thing. I straight up almost lost my job, I was about to bust this woman's mouth up. I guaran-damn-tee you she went home to her Pendleton wearing boyfriend and they spent six hours trying to find some fucking 'urban cheese' for sixty bucks an ounce in a boutique somewhere."

"Oh my god. Oh my god," Brittany heaves, breathless from her mirth. Santana chuckles and spears a tomato from a salad, swinging the fork like she's orchestrating their laughter.

Santana's mood now is markedly different from the woman who accidentally-on-purpose got blasted drunk and had to be carried home the first day they met. She likes it. Boldy she reaches over to steal a fried pepperoni from Santana's plate and the other woman playfully jabs at her hand with her utensil. The tomato cap on the tines blunts the effect and leaves a wet smear of juice on the back of her hand that she licks off idly as she laughs and crams the stolen food in her mouth after.

"For someone who mocked my food choices earlier you sure keep wolfing it down," Santana teases, popping the whole grape tomato into her mouth and then digging into her penne.

She shrugs, snapping her hand out to grab another pepperoni while Santana has her weapon in her mouth. "I've never had fried pepperoni before. Unless you count, like, on a pizza? It's good."

"Grease and carbs are my comfort food." Santana makes happy little moaning noises at she chews and Brittany smiles.

She picks at her fries and holds one out to Santana. "I bet they found some urban cheese too. That sounds like some premium artisanal brilliance right there. You might have missed the boat on that one." Giggling, Santana snaps her teeth onto the opposite end of the fry and yanks it out of her grip.

"You're probably right, I should have jumped on that shit when I had the chance. I could make a mint selling it to guys with Grizzly Adams beards."

"You could package it in little cheesewheels that look like manhole covers. Tiny ones that women could fit into the front of their overalls."

"Or in their bucket hats."

"Or you could package them in little vinyl record covers!"

The snort from across the table makes her laugh even harder as Santana claps her hand over her mouth, holding back the inelegant spray of half-chewed food. "Tiny vinyl records! Now I unironically want to be a cheesemonger, just so I can do exactly that."

Brittany wrinkles her nose. "Is that what it's called? Cheesemonger?" Santana nods and mops her palm with her napkin. "My fries need some cheese," she adds, absently, as she dabs two into ketchup.

The other woman makes a sound like surprise, swiping the napkin over her mouth and clambering gracelessly out of the booth they're sharing. "Hold up," she says as she darts away. Brittany opens her mouth to stop her but she's already marching into the kitchen, and she's pretty sure she shouldn't follow. Through the cutout window she can see Santana stand on tiptoe and yell over the prep table guard to someone on the other side.

When she comes back she looks so ridiculously proud of herself that Brittany can't help but laugh at her.

"If you're going to be a bitch about it I'm not even going to let you have any of the cheesy fries I just harassed my boss into making for us," she says evenly. Brittany immediately throws up her hands in capitulation.

There's a brief musical cue and then a new - louder - song starts, and Santana groans. "Oh no, I forgot who was working today." Brittany gives her a curious look but Santana just buries her face in her hands. "Why is it always Carrie Underwood?"

"She dresses like a Sears catalogue." Brittany notes.

The woman isn't a bad performer, despite Santana's complaints. The song is kind of lame, but she moves excitedly, passionately, and there's a table on the other side of the restaurant that whoops loudly for her. Brittany claps when it's over. Santana rolls her eyes. "You missed the glory days. Mercedes used to kill it on her shifts."

The lady at the kitchen window waves Santana over and drops a plate on the counter. "That bitch. I am a paying customer. I can't believe she's making me wait my own table." For all her whining she still gets up and goes over, although not without exchanging middle fingers with the chef. Brittany knows she probably looks ridiculous grinning at the other woman's back but there's something so charming about her constant toothless anger. Like an indoor cat that thinks it's an outdoor cat. Her phone vibrates and shakes her back to herself. _New voicemail (1)_. She doesn't recognize the number but she dials her inbox anyway while she waits for Santana to come back.

 _"This is Quinn Fabray, from New Directions. We're planning callbacks this Thursday and you need to be there. I'll text you the time and location within the hour."_

Suddenly a lot of things hit her at once. Like, a big thing is that she's going to be in an actual movie. It's a crappy low budget affair but that's still kind of a big deal. And also, Thursday is the day after tomorrow and she realizes that she might not have planned this out properly. Her current contract with the Courant Institute isn't done for another three weeks and she kind of expected to have more time to finish up there before this movie thing started for reals. But that looks like it's going to be a bit of a problem.

But the biggest thing is that Santana hasn't gotten her callback yet, even though she'd said - soft and with this fragileness that broke Brittany's heart - that _they said they'd call me back_. Literally the last thing she wants to do is claw open that clearly gaping wound by mentioning this message. But they're kind of friends now, or she wants them to be friends. They're hanging out. And she knows for sure, 100%, that trying to hide this from Santana is an excellent way to make the hanging out stop really fast.

There's not really an easy way to broach the subject though. Not right now. She tucks her phone back in her purse just in time for Santana to sit down with a heaping plate of fries and cheese and bacon and a bowl of chili on the side, crossing her legs and making herself comfortable for the long haul.

"Ok, this is just excessive."

Santana is already shoveling chili into her mouth with a few fries. "I don't need your judgement," she mumbles through her full mouth.

Brittany laughs, using her fork to grab a cheesy fry. "I kind of think you might." It takes a lot to ignore the pointed way Santana locks eyes with her and then shifts her gaze to the bowl, especially when the bowl "mysteriously" ends up directly in front of her when she turns away to grab a fresh napkin from the holder at the other end of the table. It smells spicy and warm and it's so tempting. She gives in, picking up her spoon and taking a bite. "Ohhh, my god. That's so good." It's flavorful and it burns her tongue with some kind of pepper and it's awesome.

Santana looks almost put out. "Ok, you really need to have some kind of flaw because I'm beginning to think you're actually a genetically engineered superwoman. Are you from Texas?"

The little pout of Santana's lips would knock her off her feet if she wasn't already sitting down. She laughs, spooning up another mouthful and tempering the burn with some fries. "Did you really just try to punk me with chili powder?"

The curl of her smile says Santana doesn't even feel bad about it. "Seriously, give me something to work with. I'm an under-employed wannabe actress that drinks too much and you're -"

"Super smart and pretty and so clever?" Brittany adds, biting back a smile. Silverware clatters across the table and Santana clears her throat.

"And so humble. I don't think I'd go _that_ far…"

Sucking her spoon clean, Brittany sets it on her plate and rolls her neck, no longer able to restrain her smug grin. "Well, you did on Monday."

The mortification on Santana's face is priceless and Brittany nudges her raised boot with the toe of her own shoe playfully. It makes Santana's whole body rock a little and she claps her hands over her face, groaning lowly behind them. Something that sounds like _utterances not admissible in court_ issues from the other woman, but it's muffled by her palms.

"You can't hold anything I say when I'm drunk against me." The flush of embarrassment isn't hidden by Santana's hands and Brittany grins, delighted.

"If it makes you feel any better, my secret flaw is that I have three vaginas."

Santana laughs explosively behind her hands. It makes Brittany dance a little in her seat, shifting from side to side at this tiny victory. When Santana finally gets control of herself she grabs her napkin and holds it over her mouth, and Brittany grins and wiggles her eyebrows to see if she can shatter her composure again.

"Don't pull that shit with me, I'm not here for your humblebrags. Unless they've all got teeth you're still winning."

"One doesn't, but I can never remember which."

The life Brittany has lived has given her the wisdom to know that she doesn't know very much, but she's pretty sure that making Santana laugh is the best thing she's done in a long time.

And she was nominated for a Webby last year.

They're laughing so much that Brittany almost doesn't notice the quiet, tinny strains of a Beyonce song from a nearby phone - she does, though, because everyone recognizes their favorite song and every Beyonce song is her favorite Beyonce song. "Is that your phone?" Her stomach lurches and suddenly everything feels desperate.

"Shawty, what yo' name is?" Santana sings along, nodding. She digs her hand through her giant bag and Brittany feels like she's defusing a bomb and the time until that song stops playing is ticking down fast. But then Santana gives it nothing but a cursory glance before tossing it back in and Brittany's pretty sure she now knows what a stroke feels like.

She tries to stay cool, because the last thing she needs to do is get worked up and tip her hand and get Santana all excited about a telemarketer _but what if Quinn is calling her about Thursday, too?_ With more calm than she feels, she gestures with her head towards the phone, now in the second loop of its refrain. "You should answer it."

"Rude." Santana reaches for another fry and Brittany pulls the plate away abruptly. "Also rude."

"These are mine. Answer your phone, it might be important." There's no way she can be not suspicious right now, and the look Santana gives her proves it. Clearly her secret flaw is that she can't lie to Santana to save her life.

By the time Santana answers the call Brittany is convinced the ringtone is going to stop, that it's going to be a telemarketer, that it's going to be a hospital telling her someone died, that she's fucked up yet another of Santana's days. Santana's face goes from leery to confused to the faintest hope, and there's the start of relief blooming in Brittany's middle as she scrutinizes every shift in her demeanor. "Yeah, no. I'm here. I'm here. I mean, yes, I'll be there. Thank you."

 _Please, please, please._ "Who was that?"

Slowly Santana sets her phone on the table. Her face is hard and the warmth in Brittany's stomach turns to ice as she swallows thickly. "That was Quinn Fabray. But you knew it would be."

Brittany rushes to defend herself. "I didn't, I didn't know. I got a call from her while we were here about coming in on Thursday and I was going to wait until after we ate to mention it." It feels stupid, how guilty she feels, but knowing that doesn't change the fact that she feels super guilty. "Please don't be mad?"

Santana sighs, exhaling in measures. "You didn't tell them about me, right?"

"I didn't, but I wish I had thought of that at the time." She says, as honest as she can be now.

Santana shakes her head. "I don't want that. I want them to pick me because I'm the best, not because you are."

Brittany shoves the fries back into the middle of the table and Santana starts eating again, slower. Their feet knock absently against each other for a minute before Brittany says what she's been mulling over. "I think that's dumb. People get jobs because of who they know all the time. Why shouldn't you get to benefit because you realized how awesome I was?"

There's the beginnings of a smile on Santana's face and it makes the knot inside loosen a little. She laughs, sad and wistful. "You've never even seen me act, Brittany. I could be terrible. I could be worse than a Wahlberg."

"That is impossible. Nobody is worse than Marky Mark." The quip earns her a tiny smile, which is enough to get the sudden chill out of the air. "You said you've been doing this for a long time. And you love it, or you wouldn't try so hard. Nobody loves something as much as you do and tries as hard as you do and still sucks. You either get good or you quit. Plus, you get tons of practice acting like you don't hate the boring people who come in here and ask you to sing Journey."

Santana chuckles and bobs her head. "That's why it matters so much. I love acting. It's my dream. I want to deserve it."

"That's what I'm _saying_. You already deserve it, but that doesn't mean you'll get the job. Talented people get passed over all the time and sometimes people who suck get stuff they don't deserve. I mean, _Marky Mark_." She's earnest but Santana is already shaking her head and Brittany just about throws up her hands in frustration. "Fine, well, we're both going to be there Thursday. I'm going to sneak in and watch you do your thing and then I'll be all 'I told you so' about it and you'll be all like 'you were so right Brittany, as usual'."

"Oh, that's what's going to happen?" Even if Brittany couldn't see Santana's raised eyebrow, she would be able to hear it in her tone.

"Yup," Brittany says breezily.

Santana stabs the fry Brittany's already reaching for with her fork. "Well, you probably won't have to sneak into anything. If they're calling you in they want me and all the other wannabes to read with you."

Brittany grasps one end of the fry and rips half of it out from under the fork tines. "Sweet."

"I need you to take this seriously, Brittany."

Brittany purses her lips. The darkest part of her tells her to shut up, to just let it go, that it's a waste of time - nobody is listening. "I am taking this seriously, Santana." Her retort is sharp and Santana's hand curls on the table. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say. If they're going to test who has the best… I don't know, energy with me, or rapport, or chemistry, or whatever you guys call it, that person is going to be you. I'm not going to pretend it's not you just because you are obsessed with the idea that the world is a meritocracy. It's not. Sometimes you just get lucky and you say the right thing to the right person at the right time." Santana's features go hard and sharp as she talks, but Brittany barrels on, desperate to be understood. "I get that this is important to you. You worked hard and that should be enough. But the reality is that it's not."

The hand on the table curls and flexes, like it can't tell if it wants to punch or slap. There's long minutes of quiet as she watches it vacillate. Eventually it goes still, the tension floods out, and Brittany wants to stroke her fingers over its palm like she would a cat that rolled over to reveal its belly. She chances a glance up at Santana's somber face.

"I don't like that. It isn't fair."

Brittany curls her lip, smiling softly. "Life isn't fair, Santana. You're a big girl, you know that." When Santana's face doesn't change she goes quiet, unsure now what else she can do to make things right. She wants to hug Santana but it feels like a bad time. So she shifts her feet, wrapping them around Santana's left foot and resting the tip of one ballet flat over the other between Santana's heel and the base of the bench she's sitting on. Like a foot hug.

"Letting people help you doesn't make you less awesome," she tries, one last time. "Sometimes you just need someone to put their finger on the scale for you to balance all the crap on the other side."

The hand on the table moves closer, until it rests in the middle. Santana swallows hard. "Just promise me that… if I suck, if you think someone else is better- Promise me that you'll be honest with me." Santana's pinky curls up and Brittany smiles, reaching across the table to hook her own around it.

"I promise."

* * *

 _Indie Red Review: Are you both excited for your first red carpet?_

 _Santana Lopez: So excited!_

 _Brittany Pierce: We're really excited to be here._

 _IRR: Did you expect the movie to get as big as it has?_

 _BP: Is this big?_

 _SL: (laughs)_

 _BP: I'm more excited to see this one on the Best Dressed lists tomorrow._

 _SL: (laughs) #1 - Brittany Pierce, Also Ran: that one with the bow._

 _BP: The bow is so hot._

 _IRR: How did you get ready for tonight?_

 _BP: I called Santana and made her watch Sweet Valley High with me until she had to leave to get her face did and then I called her about an hour ago and made her come back to my place and do my make-up._

 _SL: I spent an hour telling Brittany she should come with me to my stylist and then gave up when she insisted she would just handle her own make-up. She just wanted me to do it._

 _BP: I just wanted her to do it. She did my hair too, it's super cute._

 _SL: (laughs) She's crazy._

 _BP: I'm spoiled. I don't know what I'm going to do when she can't do my wings anymore._

 _SL: Don't worry, I gotchu._


End file.
